


your fingers graze that dress / and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper

by inthisdive



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7204862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthisdive/pseuds/inthisdive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair knows that she and Serena aren’t best friends in a simple, unconditional way; only one of them can be Queen – the other needs to acknowledge that. And the other is going to be Serena.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your fingers graze that dress / and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper

erena is only as real as her senses; she is only solid when she is touched, held, when she can _feel_. 

Blair grabs her with her tiny viselike hands, and Serena shudders at the way it stings, a singing thrumming harp over her delicate skin. Blair's fingers pinch, and Serena is alive. 

* 

It begins with something as simple as a magnum of champagne, a burning in Serena's chest, and a bubble of laughter that Blair kept in her mouth with the champagne's bubbles, mixed in a cocktail: Blair and alcohol. Serena could handle her drink, but this mix was intense; she drank from Blair and turned to stone. 

Serena likes it, this weightiness; she feels like she has consequence here with Blair, like she leaves more than a faint and flighty footprint on the world. She can hear Blair breathe and she can breathe with her. They move in synch, they move together, Serena can _make her move_. 

Blair murmurs, “I'm going to forget this...” and Serena can't tell if she's tapered off into nothingness, or if the lingering end of the word is supposed to address her. 'S' or nothing; it's difficult to say. Serena almost doesn't mind not knowing the answer to that, not until Blair's mouth closes over one of her exposed nipples, and then it doesn't matter at all. 

Serena thinks she could drink twelve times their combined body weight and she'd still remember every minute of this. Every inch of Blair. 

When Blair licks at Serena's breast, that pointed chin rubs against her ribcage. It's an added friction, an extra touch, and Serena arches her back and closes her eyes. She's not dizzy; she's clear-headed. She sees Blair through close-lidded-knowing and she understands everything in an instant: Blair, the universe, this – she _understands_. She combs her hands through Blair's hair, that splash of darkness against her pale light, and moans. 

“S,” Blair says, insistent, and Serena remembers how to speak. 

“Just touch me,” and it's not a command; her voice is pleading and it breaks on the last word, her knee pressing against Blair's two, drawing them apart, opening Blair to her. 

“This isn't about you,” Blair whispers in Serena's ear and, before Serena can absorb it, that hissing tone, that surprise, Blair has bitten on her earlobe and crossed her ankle over Serena's, one hand pulling up her dress and seeking out the bareness underneath. 

Serena doesn't care who it's about, what it's about, what this is for, so long as Blair doesn't stop touching her. 

* 

Blair doesn't stop touching her. The room is dark, door firmly shut, and it's only when her mouth travels over Serena's translucence, when they are locked together with silence and a burning all over their clear skin, it is only then she has Serena to herself. 

She abandons the dress, dips her head down, down, and parts Serena with her tongue. Serena swells, and Blair thinks: _All mine_. 

* 

It's power for Blair, the control she's found here with Serena, with their bodies interlocked and Serena's hair matted to her face, sweating and raw. This is her Serena, _only_ her Serena, and exactly all she needs and wants and Serena doesn't taste like perfect fucking Serena van der Woodsen, she tastes normal; the sex Blair gathers on her tongue, draws out as she pushes in. 

Serena tastes like lower-case 's'; she tastes like something Blair can touch and rise above. Her skin is paper-thin and when Blair grasps it between her fingers, her teeth, she marks. This is a fascinating development; Blair could lose herself in every pressure she creates, every blemish she bestows on the princess. 

Blair brings Serena back to Earth. She takes her down from heaven and makes her mortal again, and Blair thinks it’s more of a high than anything else she’s ever tried, the way she can take Serena and make her cry out, make her shudder – make her real. 

“Serena,” she breathes, her tongue finding Serena’s clit, “No one else could do this for you.” No one was good enough for Serena. No one but Blair. And maybe Serena had taken Nate from her but she could take Serena from the world and she knew it; she could touch her in ways no one else could. And Serena wasn’t Chuck and she wasn’t in love with Serena but she was damn sure she wanted Serena to be _hers_ again, remind her who was in charge, go back to how things used to be.

“Blair,” Serena is saying beneath her, the words choked and real, so damn real that Blair can press harder on Serena’s clit and know she won’t break. Blair knows she’s the only person that realises this; she plays up this advantage. 

There never was an advantage Blair Waldorf didn’t play up, after all.

“Blair,” Serena says again, with urgency and helplessness and something that Blair can’t place; Blair purrs against Serena approvingly at the sound of her name and lets her teeth graze, ever so lightly, over Serena’s goddamn perfect clit. 

“Let go,” Blair orders.

Serena does.

When Serena comes she cries out without words, shaking under Blair’s tongue, and Blair holds her hips and steadies her, waiting for her to calm.  
*

Later, when they are silent and sated and disheveled, and the bottles are empty, Serena looks over at Blair. Her hair is mussed but somehow that makes her look better than ever; when Blair notices that about her she scowls. 

She refuses to meet Serena’s eyes. “I’m going home,” she tells her, and straightens her skirt with as much dignity as she can muster.

She’s going to leave Serena right there. Wanting her. Needing her.

After all, it’s the way it should be.

*


End file.
